


a deep slow panic

by king_wizard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Attempted Gangbang, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dark, Dean is 19, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Series, Rope Bondage, Sam is 15, Unresolved Ending, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_wizard/pseuds/king_wizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But as much as he’s already given, he won’t turn his little brother into a sick puppy. Won’t turn his brother into the guy that forces, that tears apart what he wants just to get a marrow taste from the broken bones. Won’t make his brother hurt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a deep slow panic

**Author's Note:**

> So this wasn’t one of the things I should be working on. But basically. I wanted a fic where 15-year-old Sam rescues Dean from a gangbang then bangs Dean himself. So this happened. Title from AFI’s A Deep Slow Panic.

It’s Sam’s voice. It’s  _Sammy_.  
  
So embarrassing. Humiliating and pathetic to be rescued by the little thing he calls a brother (not so little anymore, exactly; grew a mountainous foot overnight), the only thing that makes the world worth saving. So embarrassing and so very, very welcome.  
  
He sobs. The aching of it reverbs from the gag down his throat, hot wet of it soaking the blindfold. He’s already hoarse, eyes already itchy and sore. Raw.  
  
Sam’s frenzied steps slow. Stop. Just in the doorway, if Dean’s casing the room right.   
  
He waits. For Sam to laugh, or cry, or do whatever it is he’s going to do. Lately, sometimes, Dean can’t read the kid. Sam’s changing, growing up. Has his own secrets now.   
  
He waits, waits. Sam is breathing heavy, like he ran a marathon, but it’s not exhaustion. It’s something deeper, something that twists deep in Dean’s belly.   
  
When Sam does move, it’s quiet.  _Cautious_. Not to be heard.  
  
Sam approaches slowly. So slowly it’s startling when fingers finally goosebump Dean’s flesh. He shudders, clenches around the obscene plug. Feels Sam’s touches falter along his spine.   
  
Hears Sam gulp, then feels again, feels Sam gripping the plug and twisting it  _gently_ , feels his poor sore hole flutter around it.  
  
He loses sensation when Sam eases it out of his ass.   
  
His mind is stumbling. What. Why’s Sam doing this, what’s he doing. What’s even happening.   
  
He tells his hips to shift when Sam’s trembling fingers reach between his putty legs to curl around the cockring. Wants to tell Sam not to take it off, not to touch, but he can’t speak, can’t even move. His arms collapsed under the weight of everything, and his legs are shaking. Slumped as he is, on his folded hands and knocking knees, he can only shiver and sweat.  
  
It takes a twist, some painful rolls that squeeze his sensitive cock, and Sam is slipping the ring from his too hot flesh and dropping it on the bed. His dick slaps heavy and full and aching against the tops of his thighs. Almost comes from the kiss of it.   
  
Those sick fucks – not even witches, or demons, or dumb kids messing with a Ouija board, just sick fucking fucks – played with his cock, jerked it too rough and lapped at it kitten soft, but they slid the ring on him first thing. Played with his mouth before they stuffed it with cotton, his nipples until they were stiff and sore, his ass until it swallowed the nearly fist sized plug. They didn’t fuck him – heard sirens not  before they could, ran out to leave him debauched and messy in this abandoned little house.  
  
They didn’t fuck him, and they didn’t make him come. They made him  _want_ to, though, the sick fucking fucks, and Dean is one of them, just like them, because he  _wants_ to come. Just cut or tear something to release this black building pressure. Just anything.  
  
Sam doesn’t undo the ropes digging rough into his wrists and ankles, doing less to keep him in his kicked dog position than sheer exhaustion. Sam does undo his belt, un-pops the button on his jeans, unzips the zipper. Dean hears denim pool to the rotting wood floors.   
  
He can’t figure out what his baby brother – a man at 15, really, a hero as much as their father, more than himself – is doing. Can’t fathom why Sam is stepping out of his jeans, why the bed is dipping down, why he feels the slick, hot head of Sam’s cock drooling against the back of his thigh. He knows what’s happening, what’s going to happen, but he can’t comprehend it.   
  
Palms rougher than he expected – doesn’t know why he thought Sam’s hands would be soft; kid handles the weapons and shovels almost as much as he does now – settle heavy over his ass. Spread his cheeks. He bites his tongue around the broken, terrible noise Sam chokes.  
  
“Dean.” Whispered reverent among the filth of this, whispered tearful and worshipful as Sam’s thumbs sweep broad along his taint, tips of them scraping his sloppy hole. One hand oppressive on his ass, Sam grips his own dick with the other, slides it along the open raw. Not inside, yet. “Dean, I –  _Christ_.”  
  
Sam’s breath stutters as his cock stutters in its glide, and Dean knows Sam is going to fuck him. The devastation of realization is very quiet, and very still, as it crumbles his insides.  
  
Through tears, so thick and desperate Dean can smell the sorrow sour, Sam croaks, “I  _can’t_ ,” and, “I’m  _sorry_ ,” and, “Please, you owe me, made me need this so much that I can’t, Dean, I  _can’t_.”  
  
Dean doesn’t think he owes anyone this humiliation, this control. His body has always been Sam’s though. A shield to bear the brunt of hurt and evil, a comfort to rock him to sleep. His heart is Sam’s, his soul. He’s given it all freely.   
  
He’s given so much, always, and he deserves to keep this. One stupid little thing. He let himself get jumped, left Sammy alone in the motel, and he deserves whatever John will to do him for fucking up the one job that makes all jobs worthwhile. He deserves this too though. He does.  
  
But as much as he’s already given, he won’t turn his little brother into a sick fuck. Won’t turn his brother into the guy that forces, that tears apart what he wants just to get a marrow taste from the broken bones. Won’t make his brother hurt him.  
  
He breathes and bleeds as much tension as he can from his body. Softens himself. Curves his lower back, offering a little more than everything.   
  
Sam keeps saying he’s sorry, sorry. Says it even as he does what he’s so sorry for. Says it as he pops the flared head of his cock past Dean’s stretched rim. His sorry’s shift into groan as he slides inch by agonizing inch.   
  
A wild noise, something animal and blood deep, and Sam’s balls nestle flush against Dean’s thighs. Dean struggles to breathe around the monstrous thing inside of him. Practically impossible to inhale around the sharp shots of pleasure, the shudders of being torn so wholly apart, the unbelievable force of being filled by  _Sam_. His brother beats in every atom of him.  
  
“You feel – ” Sam is shuddering, slumping his chest over Dean’s broken back as if every ounce of power has been drained by sliding balls deep into his big brother’s ass. “Inside, I’m  _inside_ , Dean, and you feel so – just, just the way I knew you would. Way I think about. Perfect.”  
  
Dean wills Sam to stop talking. To shut up. To move.  
  
Sam pulls out, pushes in, thrusts shallow and jerky. Dean’s overwhelmed by the slides of such hot, fat flesh, of the glorious ache and sickness Sam’s cock keeps gently punching. Pants into his gag, chokes on his own pain-pleasure-please groans. Eyes fly open only to be assaulted by cotton thick darkness.   
  
He’s starting to panic, forget where and who he is, forget how to breathe, when Sam slides one hand through the sweat pools of his back, holding him down and still but steady. Steady. Pressure reminds him to inhale and exhale  _slowly_. Closes his gaze to the black.  
  
Only to have it burst wide and blind again. Sam’s hit that spot, that sparking, awful spot that Rhonda Hurley unearthed and has haunted him since. Those men had a god damn GPS with the coordinates of Dean’s body already mapped. Knew exactly how to stroke him here, grind, flick cool plastic and rough fingertips over him in a tease.   
  
Sam’s next thrust misses his prostate. So does the next. But the  _third_ , the third fucking  _nails it_. Dean bites the dry of his mouth, doesn’t sob. Can’t let Sam in all his clumsy, dark deep hunger know.  
  
And it is clumsy, the stutter of Sam’s hips, the way Sam’s nails keep skidding on his slick hip. Even Sam’s breathing, like he can’t breathe, like he’s dying, gives his nerves and need away.  
  
Another accidental brush against his sweet spot, but this time he can’t stop the most pitiful, earth shaking sob from bleeding out. Sam notices, slows but doesn’t stop.  
  
“Am I – Dean, don’t, don’t wanna hurt you. Just – you just gotta…” Thrusts pick up speed again like Sam’s cock is leading him, pulling him into the rawest parts of Dean’s body, guiding him to fuck harder and harder. Like Sam really can’t stop. “Gotta relax, just – gotta just let me. Let me fuck you. Need it, Dean, need to – all I think about, fucking you, just like this.”  
  
Probably not just like this. Not with Dean blindfolded and roped up, immobilized on his hands and knees, gagging on the thick, violent length of Sam’s dick, choking in the sensations and humiliation and loathing. Sam couldn’t have thought this. Couldn’t have even dreamed up.  
  
Sam could never do this, but he is. He is.   
  
The hand on Dean’s back slips over his flank, his ass, snakes to pet his quivering stomach. Don’t touch, Dean thinks, hopes Sam can hear how loudly he’s thinking it. Because he’s surprised he hasn’t come already. Surprised the first insane slide of Sam’s insane dick, filling up his slicked out insides so terrible it felt good or so incredible it hurt, didn’t have his own cock spitting come into the sheets. Feeling trapped, drowning in the aches and discomforts, has kept his orgasm at bay. But if Sam touches, if Sam –  
  
“Still hard,” Sam breathes, shocked, as he fists Dean’s cock. Plays with it. Drags up and down in a loose grip that has Dean sobbing for real, begging for anything, anything. Sam’s hips have stilled and he’s groaning like it’s his own dick getting stripped. “It’s – you’re so soft, Dean,” breathed in wonderment. Dean squeezes his eyes until colors fire behind them. “You feel so good. And so, so hot, you’re so hot. Inside, too.”  
  
Then Sam moves, like he’s forgotten he’s buried deep in Dean’s aching body. Eases his cock out then eases it back in, gentle, as if fucking in too hard or fast will shatter Dean. His hand jerks Dean gentle and slow. And Dean is going to come, he is, from the next too tender thrust or the next pull at his own dick, he doesn’t know, but he is.  
  
Unless Sam comes first. Insides turning cold, skin burning, burning, Dean clenches his asshole around Sam’s cock. Makes the fit even tighter. Pushes into it, swallows Sam’s dick whole.   
  
“Guh –  _damn it_ , Dean. C         hrist.”  
  
The fingers not fluttering along Dean’s cock dig into Dean’s hip, like Sam is anchoring his terrible need in Dean’s land mass. Hurts. Stings. Gets Sam even deeper into Dean’s skin, body. Sam’s everywhere.  
  
The fingers that are curled around Dean’s cock tighten. Sam grips him firmly, no longer playing, no longer learning the feeling of silk fire flesh. He tugs on Dean’s cock, yanking pleasure. White heat buzzes in Dean’s spine and it’s too late, too hopeless a cause.  
  
Sam fucks his dick in deep, deep, fucks right into Dean’s prostate, and twists his hand around the shiny head of Dean’s cock, and it’s over. Dean wails into nothing and spills over Sam’s fingers.  
  
” _Dean_.”   
  
Apparently, Sam’s had decent control over where his dick was taking him. Because as soon as Dean comes, dirties Sam’s fingers with slick heat, shoots wet into the sheets, Sam becomes an animal. Something fierce, ferocious.   
  
Power overtakes Sam’s thrusts, and he’s fucking Dean the way Dean’s never fucked or been fucked in his life. Like sold lightning, like a mountain falling. Force of nature in and out and in, pushing Dean’s breath and blood and organs out of the way, making room for the only thing that will ever fill Dean. Sam. Sam’s dick, tearing him apart, Sam’s desire, Sam’s love, Sam’s need.   
  
Forever passes and Sam is still fucking him. Keeps holding his breath, pulling out, probably to squeeze the base of his dick. Like he never wants this to end. Like coming isn’t even the finish line here. Like he could just fuck Dean harder and harder for the rest of their lives. Fuck Dean – fuck them both to death.  
  
Dean feels a little like dying. Is dying, wants to die, something, he doesn’t know. But death is in his nose and plugging up his pores. Maybe he will die, just rattle apart under every rough jerk of Sam’s cock, maybe just crumble while Sam fucks him to dust.  
  
Sam fucks out more and more pieces of him, harder, shakier. “Dean, wanna, wanna come. Wanna come inside you. All – all over you.” Mouth moving as fast as his dick, rambling words and wants that Dean can barely bare. But it all drizzles over his skin, sticks. He’s honeyed with everything Sam desires when Sam’s cock finally, finally spits a dizzying stream of come into his fucked out hole.  
  
Instead of collapsing immediately, Sam fucks him through orgasm, fucks him until he can feel his asshole even slicker and hotter, so wet, such a mess, like a bleed out.   
  
Sam slows, steam engine squeaking to its destination. He stills. He stays inside. Slumps over, covering Dean’s back with his slick chest, burying his slick cheek into the nape of Dean’s neck. Sweat. Crying.  
  
Dean blinks behind his own tears, the damp blindfold. His brain got scrambled, Sam fucked them fried, but he manages to grasp that his little brother is crying and he doesn’t know what to do.   
  
He doesn’t know how long they stagnate, him too confused to move, Sam panting and tearful and plastered to him. He doesn’t know when Sam slides out of him. Still feels stretched and full, numb with the phantom girth of Sam’s cock, even as he hears Sam stepping off the bed, putting his jeans back on.  
  
Everything hazes, fades. He’s floating in something distant from Sam while his brother removes his bonds. There are no sounds in him when Sam undoes the gag. Can’t see when Sam undoes the blindfold. Everything is black.  
  
-  
  
It takes over an hour to get back to the motel. Dean can’t move for a while, trapped in some heat stasis. When he is able to, he has to lean on Sam to make it to the Impala.   
  
Dad’s truck is in the hotel lot. Whatever’s left in Dean slumps. After everything, he needs a second. One fucking second to breathe away from his family. He can’t even handle the idea of John Winchester right now.   
  
“Dean – “  
  
“I’ll go in first,” Dean croaks. Voice sounds as if it’s been tumbled through gravel. Hurts his own throat. “He’s gonna be pissed.”  
  
Sam swallows. Keeps his eyes down. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
Despite the sting, Dean laughs. “Yeah. Left you alone – “  
  
“To get groceries. And I wouldn’t go. You didn’t  _leave_ me, I – ”  
  
“ _Left you alone_ ,” Dean interrupts, gruff, glaring at his stupid dirty fingers as he curls them into a fist. “Got picked up by some jerkoff humans. Got – let them overpower me. Let them steal the Impala, take it back to that shit hole. Had to wait until my baby brother rescued me.” Fucked him, then rescued him. “I’m supposed to take care of  _you_ , Sammy. Not the other way around.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, grips the wheel until his knuckles white. “There must’ve been a lotta guys. And… The car. That’s how I found you. When you didn’t come back, I got the scanner, heard about some guys who got busted a street over, and I just thought. I knew something happened. Got a taxi but I had no idea what I was doing until I saw the Impala.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have had to look for me. I should’ve – “  
  
“Damn it, Dean!” Sam twists the wheel so roughly it must burn his hands. He lets go, fists his fingers, clenches his jaw. When he looks at Dean, there are tears in his eyes that never quite dried. Dean looks away. Sighing his name, Sam says, “It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“’Course it was.”  
  
“No, Dean, it wasn’t – “  
  
“It doesn’t  _matter_ , Sam. Dad’ll think it’s my fault. He’ll blame me. He’ll be pissed at  _me_. So you let me go in first and let him get pissed at me, okay?” Can’t let Sammy see the full dark that overtakes John in rage. Sam has seen the shadows of it, but there’s always been enough light for him to slip between.  
  
“You’re not  _listening_. It wasn’t your fault. The guys that jumped you, did that to you, what – what – “ Sam chokes. He’s crying ugly and desperate when Dean forces himself to meet Sam’s gaze. Whatever’s in Dean’s face, he’s too numb to know himself, but whatever it is, it makes Sam cry harder. “What I did to you.”  
  
“Don’t – “ Talk about it. They’re not going to talk about this, ever. Think about it. Remember it. It will fade into memories they can’t remember, never touch them again, as long as they don’t fucking talk about it. “I mean it, Sam.  _Don’t_.”  
  
Sam does. “I’m fucked up,” he whispers, wet and sorrowful. “It’s – it’s  _me_ , Dean. I don’t know what happened when I saw you. I was so  _desperate_ , and I thought – I thought it’d be the only time I could ever, I would ever touch – “  
  
Dean is scrambling with his seat belt. Can’t hear this, can’t know this, this can’t be true. His hand’s shaking on the door handle when Sam cries, “You didn’t  _owe_ me anything.”   
  
And Dean deflates. Eyes close, chest concaves, hand falls away from the handle and body falls into the seat.   
  
“I don’t – I couldn’t stop.” Spoken quiet and guilty as a child. “I saw you, and I just – I just couldn’t. But I should have. I can’t believe I did.”  
  
Neither can Dean. But he doesn’t have to. They could both pretend, and everything would be okay.  
  
“I thought – at first I thought maybe it was a dream. Some sick fantasy I just… But that doesn’t matter. I should’ve stopped. I shouldn’t have even  _thought_ about it. I mean, that – it shouldn’t have occurred to me to just pick up where they left off. But I was so scared, and I just – I just _wanted_ …”   
  
Sam inhales the rest of the oxygen in the car. Dean quietly suffocates as Sam chokes, “But that doesn’t – I shouldn’t have. And I shouldn’t have said you owed it to me. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault. It’s me. There’s something… messed up in me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, watching his brother climb back into the Sammy skin he knows, shed the desperate animal he’d been. Sam nods, like he’s affirming Dean’s affirmation, like he’s glad Dean’s with the program now. But now he’s the one that’s missing it. “Me.”  
  
“What?” Sam blinks, tears rolling.  
  
“I’m what’s wrong with you.”  
  
Horror grips Sam. “ _No_ ,” he denies fiercely. “ _No_ , Dean. You’re the only – you’re what makes me better. The only thing that  _isn’t_ wrong with me.”  
  
“You wanna – ”And they’re not talking about it, but they are, and everything is fucked, so why not say this. Why not give it breath. “You wanna do that - ” because he doesn’t know the words, can’t name what Sam did because there’s no name for it “ - to anyone else? Huh? You think about anyone else the way you say you think about me?”  
  
Sam is silent.   
  
“Okay then.”  
  
Dean cracks the door when Sam reaches for him. It’s startling, brightest light in the universe coming at him warp speed, and Dean stumbles out of the Impala in his rush to escape it.   
  
Palms pound the pavement, knees crash into it. He winces. Curses under his breath. Curses everything forever until he squints at the too dark sky and sees his father hovering furious above him.   
  
“Hey Dad,” Dean grits. “Didn’t think you’d be home ‘til tomorrow.”  
  
John raises his brow. “That why you thought you’d go out and get drunk tonight?”  
  
Relief drowns Dean.  _Wasted_. Dad thinks he’s wasted, a waste, doesn’t know badly Dean fucked up tonight. Won’t, as long as Sammy keeps his mouth shut.  
  
He’s thanking things he doesn’t believe in when John hauls him to swaying feet.   
  
“Did you take your little brother to the bar with you, or leave him here until you got too smashed to drive? He have to walk there?”  
  
“Dad – ”   
  
Sound of Sam’s shaking voice and the car door slamming spirals Dean into panic. “Brought ‘im along,” Dean says, hoping it’s the lesser evil, hoping his voice sounds slurred enough and that John won’t notice he doesn’t smell like booze or that Sam’s been crying.  
  
“You stay in the car. Me and your brother are gonna have a chat.”  
  
“No, Dad, it’s not his fault. I – ”  
  
“I don’t care what you think you did, Sammy. Dean’s in charge. He should know better.”  
  
John’s dragging him towards the room and Dean is floating again, stumbling along, grateful for the guide. But Sam can’t keep his mouth or feet still, rushes towards them, face open and pleading, movements frantic.   
  
“Dad, stop. Listen to me. Dean didn’t do anything wrong, okay, it’s all my fault. I hurt him.”  
  
Dean wraps a strangling gaze around his brother. Sam doesn’t falter.  
  
“I messed – ”  
  
“I don’t want to hear it.” John slowed when Sam spoke, but he kept pulling Dean forward. Now he’s yanking at full force again.  
  
“But I – he didn’t do anything! It was  _me_. I hurt – I ra – ”  
  
Dean can’t let Sam say it. Can’t can’t can’t. “Get in the  _fuckin_ ’ car Sam!” Volume and violence in the scream scares Dean himself.  
  
Sam’s eyes widen. John nearly ratchets Dean’s arm out of socket. “Don’t you take that tone.” Gruff and shaking with rage, John’s attention all on Dean, anger and roughness and pain painting hands all on Dean, not at all on Sam. Dean sags into his father.   
  
-  
  
A few weeks later and Sam’s tried everything short of skywriting to tell both John and Dean that Dean wasn’t at fault. Neither of them are listening.  
  
They’re in Flatwoods, Louisiana, where logging has robbed the town of their soothing forests and dark woods. It’s all wide, gaping space. Gives the summer heat more places to press oppressive and flatten the land and people.  
  
Dean’s dipping his toe into a creek that isn’t much cooler than the sweltering air. Thin white t-shirt and jeans rolled above his ankles and bare feet are little relief.   
  
A rustle to his left has him tensing. Knows it’s just Sam, but can’t find comfort in it.  
  
“Water’s hot.” He pulls his foot underneath him. “Wanna go to Wal-Mart again?” Forty-five minute drive that’s worth every second. The supercenter is the only place in town with reliable air conditioning. They’ve been spending their days there. Dean’s been flirting with the snack center ladies, getting free nachos and Dr. Pepper.   
  
“I wanna talk.”  
  
Dean pushes himself up. “Well, that sounds awful.” Sam stares at the ground. “I’m goin’ to Wal-Mart.”  
  
“Dean.”   
  
He’s walking past Sam, ignoring the desperate twitches of his brother’s fingers, the pleading in his voice.  
  
“Dean, please,” Sam calls behind him. “I don’t know what to do.”  
  
Frustrated, tired, Dean turns with slumped shoulders and meets Sam’s wavering eyes. “Just forget it,” he tells Sam for the thousandth time. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Well then I don’t know how to help you.”   
  
Scoffing with no humor, pitiful, Sam asks, “Is that it? That’s your only advice on how to deal with this?”  
  
“Yeah. Pretty much.”  
  
“How can you – ” Sam snarls off, shakes his head. Pleads to Dean for things Dean can never give him. “How can you forget it? How can you not think about it all the time?” Dean does. Every second. Sam splitting him open so damn crazily, Sam desperate for him, Sam Sam Sam. Quietly, Sam says, “I think about it. I can’t stop.”  
  
“You just… have to, Sammy. Just. Let it go.”  
  
Sam is death quiet and looks away again. In a breath barely above the ground, he says out loud what Dean, in his bones and secrets, already knows. “I still want you. It’s – it’s worse now. I think about it, and  I  _hate_  myself, but I can’t stop. How can I still want you? After what I did?”  
  
Dean doesn’t have an answer. Doesn’t know how Sam could want him past their shared beating blood, past his scars, his juvenile humor, all the bad he’s done. How Sam, who wants to save people and monsters and puppies and the world, who gets straight A’s, who smiles like the sun, could’ve ever wanted him.  
  
Doesn’t know how or why he dreams about drowning while Sam fucks him from the ocean deep back to the surface. Wakes up hard and dizzied in a deep, slow panic that never really fades.  
  
“Why don’t you hate me?”  
  
Because it would be impossible, Dean doesn’t say, because Sam should know that answer. Instead, Dean turns his back to his brother.  
  
“You comin’?”  
  
Counts 15 slow Louisiana’s before Sam sniffs. “Yeah.”  
  
Dean waits until Sam is at his side. They walk to the Impala, pretending, together.


End file.
